Disclaimer:
I don't own anything!

Author's Note:

"Courage does not always roar. Sometimes, courage is the quiet voice at the end of the day saying 'I will try again tomorrow'."
-Mary Ann Radmacher

Martel stared at the person sitting beneath the Kharlan Tree. Autumn leaf hair, nut brown skin and very green eyes. She'd last seen the man their first night in Heimdall, in a field of lunarablossoms.

And here he was, lounging among the roots of the Great Kharlan Tree like a king.

"You're Ratatosk?"

The man grinned with too-sharp teeth. "Hello, Martel."

The boys stared between them, stunned. "You know him?"

"We've met."

"I did hear rumors that you four would be coming for me."

"What rumors?" Martel scoffed. "I told you."

"So you did. How can I be of service?"

"I'm willing to bet that you don't like Alain," Mithos said. "Feel like changing masters?"

A wall of mana slammed into them, nearly putting them on their knees, and Ratatosk's eyes became the red of drying blood. "I have no masters, boy. I am mana; I came into being before the acorns that became the trees of the Ymir were on the branches of their mothers' trees. And I will be here long after the dust from your tombstone dissolves into the sea."

"I misspoke. My apologies." Mithos bowed his head. "It does, however, sound like you're not willing to make another pact."

Ratatosk sat back, his eyes cooling back to their green. "I suppose it would depend upon the pact."

"You're not stupid; you know the political situation. The elves have done nothing but hide behind their borders, content to pretend that the war has nothing to do with them, despite the fact that they have the power and resources to, if not change the tide of the war, to heavily influence one side or the other."

"And yet they sit by idly, sipping their berry wines and watching the world rip itself apart. I'm well aware."

"We're trying to put a stop to it. Peacefully."

"You believe there's a peaceful solution?"

"I do. No one wants a war."

Ratatosk hummed. "Well, that's a broad statement, but yes, the general public would prefer that the war ends. It isn't a matter of what people want but rather a matter of what they're willing to sacrifice. The morals and worldview they've known all their lives? And how long will this coveted peace of yours last? A decade? Two?"

"We need to try. Peace is possible."

"Even if war breaks out again," Yuan added slowly. "It will give the world time to rest and heal. Children will grow without the fear of bombs dropping."

"And you could use that chance, couldn't you?" Martel said, meeting Ratatosk's eyes unflinchingly. "To heal? Your Tree is dying from so much mana being used, particularly by the humans' magitechnology. So making a pact with us is really to your advantage."

Ratatosk snorted. "How convincing."

"Or would you rather continue to be associated with Alain?"

Ratatosk shrugged, a motion like a bird ruffling its feathers. "Why not? I'll annul the pact. On one condition."

"Prove our strength in combat?" Mithos sighed.

"No, no." Ratatosk waved his hand airily. "You've proven yourselves in that respect a dozen times over. My condition is that she," He pointed at Martel. "Will hold my pact."

"Me?" Martel repeated. "Why?"

"Because your little brother has been consolidating quite a lot of power and—personally—I don't like putting all my eggs in one basket."

"Are you afraid I'll misuse the power?" Mithos asked bluntly.

"'Concerned' is a better word. But yes. Power corrupts."

"Seems like a fair condition to me," Kratos said.

"It is," Mithos agreed. "So yes. I'll accept the terms. Martel holds the pact."

"Gee, thanks for agreeing for me, both of you," she said dryly, but there was an edge in her tone. Mithos and Kratos winced a bit, but she ignored them, looking at Ratatosk. "Yes, I'll agree to hold the pact."

Ratatosk held out a fist, opening it. "As a symbol of the pact."

Martel walked towards him. The object in his palm was brown and lumpy, vaguely like a walnut. "Thank you. What is it?"

"A seed from my Tree. As a symbol for this peaceful future of yours."

"You're such a sap," Martel teased. "For someone who tries to be so tough."

He smirked. "Well, I am a tree. Sap is part of the package."

The four of them groaned, making Ratatosk's warm laughter ring out.

Mithos never had to summon Ratatosk. The Spirit of the Tree tended to show up on his own. He was argumentative, clever and quite stubborn. In other words, he fit right in.

Martel told him of her experiments with the dwarven illness. She explained about the unicorn horn and how the elves had suggested a mana leaf herb. She'd tried it powdered, crushed, as a tea, in a salve. It had made a little progress, she'd explained, slowing the scales' progression and even reversing it a little.

"It's no cure, however."

Ratatosk studied her notes. Her experiments were, of course, well researched, with precise measurements and effects. There were places where her handwriting turned frantic and there were suspicious smudges in some places that Ratatosk was not going to attribute to tears. (He has never been kind, exactly. Not like Luna, and Gnome, and even Undine if you catch her in the right mood. If people cry, it is their business. He wouldn't do well with tears anyway)

"They told you it was a dwarven sickness?" Ratatosk repeated.

"Yes. From their mines."

"Dwarves and other species are fundamentally different in their biology. Humans are the closest, but dwarves have evolved for living underground. If it dwarves get sick, it's often an above-ground influence, which humans, half-elves and elves are naturally more resistant to. There's not many things that affect both."

Ratatosk eyed Martel critically. "You said that the mana leaf works best in powdered form?"

Martel nodded, trying to find the connection in Ratatosk's logic. "Yes. And not as a fine powder either. Mixed with some lemon gel to make a kind of rough cream, it has the best effect so far if backed with a Revitalize spell."

"From what I can see, the sickness is actually slowing down your mana flow."

"But I can cast spells just fine. Wouldn't that be affected?" And wouldn't she or Mithos have noticed, as sensitive to mana as they were? But then, Ratatosk was the Spirit of Mana. Of all beings, he would be the one to know.

"Quite the opposite. Slowing down your mana flow lets it pool, kind of like water. It gives your body an easy reservoir to draw from. Most mages and Healers have slower mana flows for that reason, letting them cast spells easier, and they tend to be stronger." Ratatosk leaned forward, tapping the Exsphere on Martel's hand. "What is this?"

"It's an Exsphere. The half-elven army got them by trading with the dwarves. They're to help bring soldiers to the best of their natural ability."

Ratatosk hummed. "The dwarves are an inventive bunch, but even they couldn't invent this."

"You think it's the Exsphere's fault?"

"Yes. I've seen Exspheres before, but I've never seen one do this. Usually, they bolster the mana flow so that that the body's metabolism becomes, eventually, unnecessary. Exspheres are a parasitic stone; there's a reason mortals don't run on pure mana—"

"Like spirits do."

"Like spirits do," Ratatosk agreed. "Mana is influenced by emotion. When you're angry, your spells are harder to control due to your increased heartrate, bloodflow, etc. All extreme emotions do that. Your brain has to work overtime to channel mana with all that going on, which increases the electrical signals it gives out.

"Exspheres feed on those electrical signals, and by slowing the metabolism, the body learns to work with purely mana rather than calories for energy, for example. It lessens the need for food as often, theoretically at all if you wore the Exsphere long enough. But the brain, caught in that state of heightened activity, is constantly that active, which feeds the Exsphere. It heightens the reflexes, reaction times—"

"All good for soldiers."

"Precisely. And as long as the Exsphere stay attached, the body's fine. But the longer the Exsphere remains attached, the more the body depends on it."

"So, when it gets removed, what happens?"

"The mana in your body would go out of control. At best, your body tries to restart itself. Heart attacks, gasping breath. It's possible it can. But it'll be a long, painful process to get it to work on its own entirely again."

"And at worst?" Martel felt her heart sink.

"The mana goes so out of control, and the body can't keep up, that the mana warps the body. Becoming a monster."

"That's how monsters are made?"

"Many of them, yes. Not by Exspheres, but if enough stress happens to the body, and the mana tries to catch up, it'll overwork itself." Ratatosk smiled crookedly, though it wasn't a happy one. "Why do you think I'm both Lord of Monsters and the Spirit of Mana? They're tied together."

"Is that what's happening to me? Am I becoming a monster?"

"No. Your body is actually doing the opposite. It's reacting like it's battle-ready, but the mana is pooling rather than flowing faster, so pieces of mana are crystallizing. That's what those scales are."

Martel frowned, looking down at her hands. The scales were present over the ridges of her knuckles, the prominent bones of her wrists. "So what you're saying is that I'm becoming a giant crystal?"

"Essentially."

"The dwarves don't have any solution for this? They can't run the risk with their people like that."

"I'm a pretty sure that they have a way so that the Exsphere doesn't touch skin. That's how they feed off their host."

"If I'm a rare case, that may be why the dwarves don't really have a solution yet. And I imagine that they're naturally more resistant to the Exspheres. I'll write to Myra so that she can discuss with her dwarven contacts. Maybe even talk to the Shadow monks, see if they have any knowledge of it." Martel pulled out her notebook, already beginning to pen the letter to Myra. She paused, tip of her pen hovering over the page. "If the dwarves have that kind of technology to not let the Exsphere feed, why does no one in the half-elven army have them?"

Ratatosk shrugged, leaning back until he was lying flat on the ground. "Maybe the army got them from some shady characters. Or they got a cheaper deal without the tech. I'm assuming the half-elves aren't exactly swimming in funds."

Martel's heart sank like a stone. The latter was much more likely. "No…they're not."

She brought up the theory to Kratos, about the army cutting corners to provide Exspheres. Kratos was quiet for a few minutes, thinking it over as he scrubbed a stubborn spot in their pot. Finally, he said, "I think it's plausible. Desperate times and all that"

"It's sick, Kratos."

"I know. There might be a way to counteract or reverse it. Until we get word from Myra, we have no way of knowing."

"You're pretty calm about all this."

"It's feeding off me, yeah, but so far, there's been no adverse effects and it's probably the only reason I've survived as long as I have," Kratos said dipping the pot in the stream to rinse it out. "I'm honestly more concerned about you."

"I feel better knowing exactly what's wrong with me. Gives me a direction, y'know?"

Kratos made a noncommittal sound in his throat. "I suppose I do."

Myra's letter returned a week later. You're right, it read. We as an army chose to neglect the Key Crest on the Expsheres in order to save money. Key Crests, as they've been explained to me, are the technology you're talking about. They serve as a resting place for the Exsphere so that the effect goes through, but the parasite can't feed. It's a dwarven art, so they're the only ones who know the proper runes and inscriptions. I know that it is made from a certain kind of ore, and the dwarves tell me that a Key Crest can be applied after the Exsphere has been attached to the skin to get the effect.

I'm sorry for what the army did. We needed soldiers. As a Healer, I disagreed with the decision not to tell you, but as a strategist, I understood the need to do it. I do not tell you this to excuse my actions, but to provide an explanation.

"Would one of these 'Key Crests' even work?" Yuan asked, handing Martel back the letter. "Ratatosk said your case was basically unheard of. The Key Crest might not be effective."

"It's a start. We can adapt from there if needs be," Mithos told him. "We can write to the Shadow monks. I'm sure they would help us."

It took two weeks to receive a reply from the Shadow monks, with a package as well. They had made it back to Heimdall four days ago, and had continued scouring the library for information on anything that sounded remotely like Exspheres, but there wasn't much. Even Kunir could find very little.

Inside the package were instructions and four little bowl shaped pieces of metal about an inch long and half an inch deep.

"Simone says that we can attach it to jewelry if needed," Mithos read. "But usually, the Exsphere is placed in the bowl and then the Key Crest is surgically embedded into the skin."

"Surgically would be if the skin weren't open already, I imagine," Martel eyed the Exsphere on her hand. "Think they're safe to remove?"

"We've had them removed before," Mithos reminded her. "In the ranches. Nothing happened."

But it had been well over two years since they'd been captured in the ranches. And if the Exspheres responded to stress levels, they would theoretically be more attached than they had before, with their travels and fighting Summon Spirits.

"He has a point. I'll go first." Yuan had to work to remove the Exsphere from his skin, using a small knife to cut around the edges and pry it loose. He blinked, the world sliding sideways as Martel carefully slid the Key Crest into place. She healed the skin so it attached smoothly before taking the bloody Exsphere from Yuan's hand, wiping it on a rag and inserting it into the Key Crest.

"Do you feel any different?" Kratos asked, keeping a bracing hand on Yuan's shoulder as he watched him sway.

"Uh. A little bit like throwing up, actually. That's—that's not fun."

"Sit," Martel ordered. "Head between your knees. Breathe."

Yuan obeyed, feeling the nausea subside slowly, though if he tried to sit up, it came back. Martel checked his pulse. "Fast, for you, but it's slowing down."

They waited until Yuan could stand without the world spinning before continuing on to Kratos. Kratos actually did throw up, followed by violent hacking coughs that Martel feared would break a rib. They moved Kratos to a cot to lie down, breathing too fast, and with a basin nearby just in case.

When they removed Mithos' Exsphere, he nearly passed out, vision going white, knees buckling. Yuan caught him, but he moved too fast and he was apparently not entirely recovered because he lost his balance, blood rushing. They ended up collapsed in a heap on the floor, and after a few minutes when they could both say—with not a lot of confidence—that they were okay, Kratos chuckled weakly at them.

"We should've just put them on jewelry," Kratos said, but he was still smiling, even though he was still looking pretty pale.

They were all braced for some reaction from Martel when she put on her Key Crest. Nothing. "I don't even feel dizzy," Martel told them, looking down at the Exsphere. The parasite, she amended venomously.

Kratos' forehead creased in concern. It made Martel's heart hurt; he was only twenty-six. He shouldn't have the beginnings of lines on his face like that. They were all too young for this. "Ratatosk said you were reacting differently to the Exsphere itself. Maybe the Key Crest needs to be made differently for it to work for you."

"We can probably reverse-engineer it," Yuan said. "We have the base model for Key Crests now. If we ask Simone for the schematics on these, we might be able to adjust the runes so it works for you."

Martel threw her arms around Yuan, nearly knocking him off balance. (She is overwhelmed, sometimes, by htow lucky she is to have him—and the other boys—in her life) "I love you."

He laughed a little, kissing her forehead. "I love you too. Now c'mon. We have four—well—" Yuan cast a doubtful eye over Kratos. "Three and a half—brilliant minds to put to work."

"Hey!" Kratos protested, but he couldn't fight the smile. Martel squeezed Yuan a little tighter, and felt him do the same.

She was not alone. She would never have to fight this—or anything, alone. And was there a better feeling than that?

Simone was more than happy to send the schematics over to her friends and the holder of her patron Spirit's pact. Mithos and Yuan—the most adept at puzzling out dwarven runes, pored over the schematics, breaking it down logically.

Yuan tilted his head at the paper. "The metal is something called inhibitor ore? Am I reading that right?"

Mithos found his spot and translated it mentally. "Looks like."

"It must be non-conductive, since the Exsphere apparently feeds off electrical signals." Yuan jotted that down, making a list of things they needed or note of important points.

"Doesn't that look like a variation of a Barrier spell?" Mithos asked, pointing out the section.

"Perhaps that helps slow the mana flow," Kratos suggested. "Or it's another layer of protection from the Exsphere's influence."

It was heavy, headache-inducing work. They all tried their hands at it when they could, but Yuan and Mithos were the ones at it the most. They worked through the nights, stopping when Kratos would interrupt them to tell them to bathe before they stunk up the place, or when Martel sat with plates of food across the room that smelled distractingly good. But their progress was frustratingly slow, even as Martel tried to tell them that it was okay, she didn't need it right away.

Mithos narrowed his eyes at her. "Don't you start with the self-sacrifice. We're going to figure this out, Martel. Don't worry."

(There are moments, like this one, where Martel can see the adult that Mithos will become. Can see it in the wisdom of his eyes, the sharpening lines of his face, in how he carries himself. It's an odd thing to witness, someone whom you'd helped learn to walk growing into themselves like that, but the man that Martel sees, it is a man she can be proud of)

It had been a week when both Yuan and Mithos paused, looking at their work with puzzled expressions. "I don't even recognize any of this," Yuan said.

"I know a section here or there, but overall, nothing."

"Let me see." They offered Martel the translation of their notes. "These look like medical notes. For the metabolism. That must be why the mana leaf herb works at all. It's usually used to help restore the internal balance of the body."

"You said you couldn't get results with it though. Nothing definite."

"I couldn't. But if the Exsphere is constantly feeding, then the healing would also have to be constant. And no one can do that. There were small results because the healing worked a little bit, but not enough to offset everything else. With the proper runes on the Key Crest, the normal healing magic might actually work because it would properly get absorbed into the body."

Mithos sucked his teeth. "Lemme see your notes?"

After Martel passed them, Mithos' mind whirring at a thousand miles an hour as he cross-referenced them, Yuan tugged Martel close, dropping a kiss on her neck as they watched him. "Y'know. Your brother's gonna save the world someday."

"It took you this long to figure that out?" Martel drew absent shapes beneath the hem of Yuan's shirt, along the ridges of his hipbones. She tilted her head over to look at him, raising a hand to gently touch the beginnings of dark circles beneath his eyes, at the stress tightening the corners of his mouth. "You need a break. You both do."

Yuan shook his head. "We're fine. If tiredness is the worst that comes to us, it's a blessing. You're more important."

(Martel Yggdrasill is not a woman who is accustomed to being put first. It's neither a good nor a bad thing; she is simply someone who, from the moment she had scooped Mithos up as she ran for Heimdall's borders, has put everyone else—namely Mithos—first. It's oddly comforting to have Yuan put her before other things)

Kunir visited them two nights later, pale hair drawn back from his face and not quite meeting their eyes. "You guys should leave soon."

"What?" Kratos asked. "Where is this coming from?"

"I hear it from the other villagers. They didn't like the fact that you guys were here in the first place, but there's a lot of talk about you overstaying your welcome. I just don't want you guys to get hurt if they decide to—try and lynch you all or something."

Martel flinched at the thought—there would always be nightmares of the mobs the day that they ran her and Mithos out of Heimdall, burning everything and anything that had to do with half-elves in the village. "We appreciate the warning, Kunir."

Mithos didn't even attempt to argue; his memories of their exile weren't what one could call 'vivid', but Martel's reaction, her tension at being in this village, was more than enough for him. "Guess we're taking our research on the road."

"I'm so sorry."

Looking at Kunir, at how young he seemed, though he had several hundred years on her, Martel softened a little. There was hope yet for change. After all, had someone asked Martel years ago if a full blooded elf would help a ragtag group of unwanted people like theirs, well. She might have laughed in their face. "It's not your fault, Kunir. They'll change their minds one day, and we'll all have a victory toast to say I told you so."

Kunir chuckled a little, a weary sound. "I hope you're right. I'm going to try and change things from within the village. I'm the future Storyteller, after all. I'm going to weave the stories about you into the mana leaf cloth, about the war heroes who defeated Origin, who befriended Ratatosk. About the things you've seen and done. I won't let Heimdall erase you, like they did to half-elves before."

Martel hugged Kunir tight. Yuan grinned at Kunir's stunned face. "Yeah, she's impulsive like that."

Martel stepped back, giving Kunir his personal space back. Most elves weren't good with physical affection. Kratos laughed when Martel told him that, saying that it must be proof that she's adopted because she and Mithos were always hugging and wrestling and gently bumping everyone. "I wish you the best, Kunir. You've been a good friend in a place where we didn't think to find any."

Kunir was horrified to see her eyes oddly moist. "Please don't cry," he blurted.

She chuckled, a wet, light sound. "Sorry. It's just—it's more than I could have ever hoped for. Being remembered. Who would've thought?"